


Aiden Does Atlanta

by sirsparklepants



Category: Watch Dogs (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fashion & Couture, M/M, My Public Love Letter To Atlanta, Shopping, Strippers & Strip Clubs, local color, reference to human trafficking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:21:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24575230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirsparklepants/pseuds/sirsparklepants
Summary: Aiden's made a lot of mistakes in the past, but he's pretty sure this is the first one that's ended up with him getting a lapdance from a muscular man in a gay strip club down south. It might get him his information. It's definitely going to get him his man.
Relationships: Jordi Chin/Aiden Pearce
Comments: 14
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tentacledicks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tentacledicks/gifts).



> You know how sometimes you make jokes and they just get away from you? I made a joke a while ago about how I bet there were more male strip clubs in Atlanta than country-western bars, and next thing I knew I was batting around ridiculous ideas about Aiden fucking up and ending up in a gay cowboy themed strip club in Atlanta. People (TD) encouraged me, and then, well… it expanded. It's still not a serious story by any means - it's very much a comedy. A sex comedy with a side of murder, as you do.
> 
> I've been sitting on this story for literal years, so I decided to throw up the first half and hope it would kick my own ass into gear wrt the second. When? Your guess is as good as mine, buckaroos.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Media

  


[YouTube Mirror](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLtPtBKGcHKMgJ80_rDtZX0-9kGHWKXwSp)


	2. Chapter 2

Fifteen hours on a bus - even a bus with power outlets and a bathroom - was too long. But Atlanta was far enough away from the mess he'd left in Chicago to be relatively safe. Aiden could have driven, but the bus let him do some last minute checking up on his target’s habits, and it was empty enough he managed to drowse for an hour or two on the highway. Flying, of course, was out of the question if he wanted to bring his guns, and he never went anywhere without them these days. They didn't bother to take bus baggage through a security check, and besides, he hated the Atlanta airport. He'd never been to it, but he hated it anyway. O’Hare had been the busiest airport in the world for years, and Aiden had enough Chicago pride to resent his city being upstaged. 

The bus did only allow him one bag, into which Aiden had very carefully packed his three pistols, a disassembled rifle, several knives, and enough ammunition to bring down a small nation or a large crime syndicate operation. But he could buy clothes anywhere. And layering up meant he could carry more clothes on himself - enough for a few days, if he didn't get any obvious stains on them. His few toiletries (the ones a cheap hotel wouldn't provide) and his tech filled up a laptop bag. There was one more handgun tucked in at the small of his back, hidden by the fall of his shirts and jackets, since he hadn't felt comfortable unarmed. It had been digging into his kidney for the last three hours of the trip. With the stubble, the bags under his eyes, and the baseball cap, he looked close enough to homeless for the other passengers on the bus to keep their distance. That was good. He'd hated being crowded even before The Vigilante made it bad for anyone to get too close of a look at him. 

The bus finally came to a stop, and Aiden stood up, more than ready to get out. He'd chain-smoked three cigarettes at the last stop, but that had been four hours ago and he was ready for another one. Nicotine gum just wasn’t the same.

He'd booked a stay at a short term rental intended for people relocating for business - a little nicer than his normal, but the target liked to hang around midtown and downtown, and Aiden didn't trust himself to be able to follow the man on wheels in a new city with unfamiliar traffic patterns. Better to get him with a tracker while they were both in a bar and stay somewhere close enough to the transit lines he could get downtown soon. 

It was only early afternoon, though. He'd better get on the train and check in, get a little security up. Then he could work out where his target would be. 

Aiden made sure his cap was pulled down and his collar was turned up as he walked off. The hot, humid air started to creep under his collar before he'd even properly stepped outside, and there was sweat gathering at his temples before long. Chicago got hot like this in the summer, but Aiden hadn't quite been expecting it in May. He'd have to change when he got settled in. Maybe buy some new clothes sooner rather than later. He tried to breathe shallowly, adjusting to the moisture in the air. There was nothing but asphalt, concrete, and traffic around him, but somehow it seemed like Atlanta smelled a little greener than Chicago did at this time of year. Maybe it was the mildew. 

The bus station was just across the street from a train stop, and Aiden headed that way. He kept his phone in his hand while he sucked a cigarette down, trying to project the body language of a tired working man now instead of the body language of a belligerent homeless one, even if that’s what he really was. He was risking enough with all the weapons on him as it was, even in Georgia - he didn't need to be picked up for loitering or vagrancy. He was just lucky the bus companies had converted to automation in unloading the bags. Guns and ammo weighed a lot more than a week's worth of clothes. All the mass transit companies had gone to automation by now, though, and that meant ctOS. Aiden could get into their systems and convince them he was never there as soon as he had his bag in his hand. 

There - the familiar ctOS box was visible on a nearby concrete column. Atlanta hadn't been an early adopter, but as soon as the financial district saw the success and convenience in New York and Los Angeles, they'd started kicking their heels to get an overhaul of the system in their high-rise condos and glass-walled banking headquarters. By now the whole city was hooked up, buses and trains included. It made it easier for Aiden to erase his digital footprint, and easier to track the movements of his target, Glenn Sinclair. 

Sinclair was one of the financial movers and shakers who'd pushed for ctOS adoption, an investor who worked three days a week in a glass-walled office that overlooked downtown and spent the rest of his time in the city’s many hookah bars and strip clubs. He was also rumored to be a major source of liquid capital for the traffickers in this region. Aiden had heard about him through a private IRC channel a contact of his had granted him access to, and Chicago was still hot for him. He'd gone back long enough to check in on Nicky and Jacks in person and then hopped a bus out of there. Sinclair had simply been the first convenient target far enough away to get some attention focused elsewhere. 

As he sweated on the hot, still air of the train platform, hauling his bag behind him and trying not to let on how heavy it was, he couldn't help but wish he'd gone somewhere a little cooler. The train station was above a highway and under a bridge, and the radiant heat from seven lanes of asphalt rose up only to become trapped under the concrete. It only took ten minutes for his train to come, but that was five minutes longer than he would have liked with the pistol warm against his back, sliding in the sweat that was starting to pool there. Aiden grimaced. He'd have to wash the inner layer of his clothes, at least, before he went out tonight.

The hotel room, which was really more like a studio apartment, was - fine. Three stories on a tree-lined street. A small parking lot. Only one transfer after he got off the train. Close enough to the bus stop that Aiden didn't feel suffocated by the short walk. Sterile and generic, but more homelike than any place he'd been recently that wasn't his sister's house. More bright colors and light than he would have preferred, but there was a dining table big enough to spread his laptop and papers out on at once, and a couch he wasn't afraid to touch. The kitchenette wouldn't get much use, but there was a fridge for his leftover pizza, which was better than normal. Most importantly, it had a shower and a small laundry room, shared by the building. Both would be getting more use than they would in Chicago - the small window unit kept the studio cool, but it didn't take much of the thick humidity out of the air. 

Without much luggage, it didn't take Aiden long to settle in. He carefully unwrapped the handguns from the old shirts he'd wrapped them with to keep them safe and muffle the metal-on-metal sounds, shirts that were too ratty or stained with blood or sweat to wear any more, and secreted them around the apartment. The rifle stayed in his bag. The trees kept anyone from getting a decent sightline on him, but he closed the curtains anyway. When he went out later he'd find a dollar store, get a set of stick-on window alarms, and wire them into his phone so he'd be alerted if anything happened. The apartment door already had a deadbolt and a security chain. 

There wasn't much else to do after he'd washed the sweat off himself and his clothes. He'd gotten a sandwich from the convenience store across the street, but it was still a few hours before the city nightlife would really start. Maybe he’d take the chance to go get some more clothes. 

* * *

He hadn't found a Flormart or a Bullseye yet, but he wasn't giving up hope. He could always run a Nudle search for them, but Aiden liked to get a feel for a city if he didn't have a specific place to get to. He couldn't drive around like he normally would - he thought sourly that the congestion was worse than Chicago’s, then wondered why he was so attached to the idea of low quality city planning - so he wandered from train station to train station. It was busier, more varied than he'd expected. He'd thought it was maybe just a bigger version of the small hick towns that dotted the highways out here. He'd seen enough of them on the bus ride down. But Atlanta was vibrant, even though Aiden could see the clear signs of gentrification that was a hallmark of ctOS. He was hoping maybe it was big enough for him to get a decent pizza later. 

Somehow, he'd wandered into a part of the city where everything was made of concrete and the windows were mostly blacked out. It might have made someone else uneasy, but to Aiden it just felt comfortable, like a jacket he'd finally broken in. Chicago had plenty of nice parts, but other than when he went to see Nicky and Jacks, he'd mostly stayed out of them. The rundown storefronts were more familiar than the prettied-up signs in the busy tourist areas. He knew he could handle anything that came along after that shitshow he'd just left, anyway. 

It was still late afternoon. According to the signs, most of the businesses wouldn't open for another hour or so. One of them was ready for customers, though, according to the posted hours. Aiden wouldn't have guessed it from the closed door and dark windows. Must have just been that part of town. The sign painted on one window read “Rawhide Leather”, and there was a hint of that smell spilling out into the street, even to Aiden, who'd killed his sense of smell with his pack a day habit when he was a teenager. Maybe they did repairs - his jacket could use it. It was getting worn. 

The door didn't chime as he walked in, but a bearded white man, short with close-cropped back hair, who was stationed strangely near the door looked up. He eyed Aiden warily. Maybe they got a lot of robberies around here. Aiden wouldn't be surprised. He seemed to pass muster, though, and the man went back to what looked like - well, a magazine Aiden wouldn't ever be caught with if he knew what was good for him, that's for sure. 

Though the magazine didn't seem so strange once he'd taken a look at the contents of the shop. There were… well, leather straps. Everywhere. And enough studs to supply Rob Halford for a year. When he'd seen the sign, he'd been expecting cowboy boots and jackets. Maybe a saddle. Not anything like this - although that back corner had some things that looked a lot like a saddle, if… differently proportioned to the way he expected. Aiden wanted to squirm, looking at it. He didn't know where to look. The only neutral space in the whole store seemed to be an unadorned door in the back wall, but he knew how shops like this worked. There was something even more risqué behind that door, even if he couldn't think what it would be. At a loss, he looked at the counter the man was sitting behind. He was too shocked to walk right back outside. 

“First time?” the man asked as Aiden unwittingly made eye contact. 

“What?” Aiden asked, looking at him. The man was in a t-shirt, charcoal gray with a lighter gray pattern of rectangles. It was closely fitted to his broad shoulders and stocky chest. There was some kind of harness on top of it that Aiden found it hard to take his eyes away from. 

“You're a little old for a first-timer. Girlfriend send you along to freak you out?” the man asked. 

Aiden snorted involuntarily. The man looked over at him more carefully, assessing. “Or you've come to buy yourself a present?” he asked, carefully probing. 

Aiden had to clamp down on any reaction to that hard enough it probably showed in his face. Sure, he'd thought about this kind of thing a time or two. He hadn't been very picky about the kinds of magazines he got his hands on when he was a teenager. Hard to be picky, with his tastes back then. But how did this stranger know? It wasn't written across his face, or he wouldn't have made it out of Chicago alive. 

“Rough man like you, bet you like to swing a paddle from time to time,” the man said. Then he stopped, and gave Aiden a more piercing look than before. “Or maybe you're a cuffs man. Like to have someone else lock you down for a while.”

There wasn't enough air in the room. Only several years’ practice at keeping it all together despite everything kept Aiden from hyperventilating. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before any sound would come out of it. 

“Just wanted my jacket fixed,” he ground out. “Guess this is the wrong place for that.”

He could see the urge to laugh on the clerk's face, but the man kept it out of his voice as he approached Aiden. “We do custom work here, actually,” he said, “so there's tools in the back. What's wrong with it?” Without asking for an answer, he started circling Aiden, eyeing his jacket with professional focus. Aiden had to keep himself from twitching or turning so he was facing the man. He didn't like having strangers staring at his back, especially when he was carrying a gun without a holster there. 

“The shoulder seams are starting to go and the elbows are getting thin,” he said as the clerk surveyed him. 

The other man made a disapproving noise in the back of his throat as he finished his circuit. “And you haven't been cleaning or conditioning it right, either,” he said. “Well, we can fix that right up. Give it to me and I can have it ready in a few hours. Normally you'd be behind everyone else, but this is a lot less complicated than the orders we have going.”

Aiden tensed as the man held out his hands. He wasn't wearing enough under the jacket to hide the clear outline of his gun without it. He did want it repaired, and he didn't want to be remembered, but he couldn't hand it over now. 

“Is the offer still good if I come back later?” he asked. 

“What, are you going to go somewhere else and compare prices?” the man asked. “We're the only custom goods shop in the area.” But he sighed after a few moments of Aiden saying nothing. “I'm a member of the Pink Pistols, I'm not going to say anything,” he said.

Aiden frowned. “The what?” he said. 

“Pink Pistols. You know. Gays with guns. So I'm not going to say anything about yours. Except that if you get a concealed carry holster, it'll be less wear on your jacket. If you keep holding it the way you are, you'll get a print on the leather soon.” When Aiden didn't say anything, the man added, “I know it's Fulton County, but we are still in Georgia. I know what to look for.”

It took a few more moments for Aiden to unstick his vocal cords. “I didn't know it was so obvious,” he said, trying for the clerk's nonchalant tone. 

The other man shrugged. “I do a lot of range training. It's the way you hold yourself. So are you going to let me repair that jacket or not?” 

“Yes, but… later,” Aiden said. “I need another jacket first. I have to take the train.” 

The clerk shrugged again, the picture of a disaffected retail employee. “Suit yourself. At least it's cool enough for one.”

Aiden kept his opinion about that to himself as he turned to go. It certainly wasn’t jacket weather to him, but it was good to know he wouldn’t stand out. Maybe he would come back, but only after he’d gotten an idea of where Sinclair was. 

He wanted to scan the street warily as he walked out, but not much would bring more attention to him than that, so he settled for pulling his hat down low on his face and jamming one hand into his jeans pocket. Staring at his shoes meant he didn't look where he was going, though, and he almost bowled over someone standing in front of the door. 

Aiden looked up to mumble an apology - people were prickly about eye contact, thought he wasn't sincere if he didn't at least look like he was making it - and stopped. That was a familiar face on top of a familiar well-cut suit. A familiar face that he really didn't want to see right now. He ran possibilities through his head - make a run for it? Step back inside and slam the door shut? But none of those would make Jordi leave it alone. His best bet was to brazen it out and hope Jordi didn't get a good glimpse of the interior. 

“Pearce! What brings you to the dirty south?” Jordi asked, a little louder than Aiden would have really liked on a public street, no matter how empty. “And to such an interesting part of it. ”

“Work,” Aiden said vaguely. “What about you? I thought you hated the humidity.” He pulled the door closed behind him and started to walk, desperate to get away from the misleading leather store. 

“I've got a guy here, only one who knows how to put together a good summer suit the way I like,” Jordi said. He kept pace with Aiden and the grin on his face was enough to get Aiden’s shoulders creeping towards his ears. “He's just down the block, actually. And does work have you going into a kink shop, or is that more of a personal interest, would you say?” 

Aiden dug the crumpled soft pack of cigarettes out of the breast pocket of his jacket and lit up. There was no way he could handle this conversation without nicotine. “It was a mistake,” he said, taking a deep drag and blowing the smoke in Jordi’s direction in hopes that it would make the other fixer give him some space, at least. 

Jordi did back up a little, coughing theatrically. “Jesus, no wonder you have to chase everyone down in cars if this is how you treat your lungs,” he said. “How do you expect to keep going in five years if you treat your body like this?” 

Aiden suppressed his initial response - ‘what makes you think I'll still be going in five years?’ - and instead blew out another huge cloud of smoke to maximize his personal space. “I have some alternate plans,” he said instead. 

Jordi snorted. “Well, I hope it's better than whatever plan made you end up in _Rawhide_ by mistake,” he said, raising his eyebrows and wiggling his hands and splayed fingers in a mocking gesture Aiden had last seen from a teenager. 

“I needed my jacket repaired,” Aiden said, trying not to hunch his shoulders more. The seams really were going, and he needed not to put extra strain on them. 

“Yeah, you do, but I don't see what that has to do with - oh. Oh, I see. You didn't realize what kind of leather store it was, did you?” Jordi asked, laughing. “Did you not notice the blacked out windows?” 

Aiden took another long drag and regretfully dropped the end of his cigarette on the sidewalk - how was it down to the filter already? “I noticed,” he said, fiddling with his phone. “I just didn't think it was that important.”

“No wonder you had such a problem with Maurice,” Jordi said, creeping a little closer now that the threat of the tobacco smoke was gone. “Details, Pearce. The devil is in them. You're Catholic or something, right? Aiden. That's a good Irish Catholic name. You should know that already.”

Aiden could hear his teeth grinding together until he forcefully relaxed his jaw. Of all the tailors in all the world, what made Jordi come to this one? “Clearly it hasn't quite sunk in yet,” he said. “What's your tailor doing in the red light district?” 

He couldn't see Jordi’s face from this angle, but he knew if he looked back that the man would have his head thrown back, just from the sound of his cackle. “Red light district? Please, how old are you? He just doesn't like to be bothered,” Jordi said. “Plus, the cops don't think very well of any tailor who stocks lightweight Kevlar in their shop. APD stays away from that area of town, so he set up shop there.”

“How nice for him,” Aiden said, his tone suggesting anything but. He could see the sign for the train station fast approaching, and he latched his gaze on it like a lifeline. He couldn't see Jordi, with his tailored suits and customized sniper rifles, stooping to take public transport. 

And oh look, he was right. “The subway, really? Who are you tracking that takes the _subway_?” Jordi’s voice was full of scorn. “Are you one of those do-gooder charity case fixers now? What happened to _The Vigilante_?”

Aiden sighed. “I’m just getting a feel for the city,” he said. He wished Jordi wouldn’t say that ridiculous media nickname so loudly, but saying so would just make him get even more obnoxious about it, he was sure. 

“On MARTA?” Jordi asked. “Really? Look, I’ll make you a deal. I hate dealing with the traffic in this city, and I know you'll actually rear-end some asshole if I ask, unlike last night’s Uber driver. I’ve got a car. You can drive it around if you fill me in on what you’re doing here, all right?”

Jordi would probably follow him around and make a nuisance of himself if Aiden didn’t give in. He hadn’t exactly planned for this job to have backup - it wasn’t as big as his plans for Maurice - but he hadn’t really planned for this job in the first place. Hopefully, Sinclair would have enough illicit money to make this all worth it. Aiden sighed and consciously smoothed out the tension in his shoulders, or at least as much of it would come loose these days. It was less than he would really like.

“Where are you parked?” he asked, trying to act like this had all been completely his idea. Jordi had nice taste in cars, at least, even if he’d have to pay for it by driving in this shitshow of a city. 

“Just down this street,” Jordi said, making a theatrical gesture reminiscent of the airport employees who directed planes in when landing.

Aiden lit up another cigarette resentfully. He wouldn’t do it inside whatever car Jordi had gotten ahold of here, but if he was lucky, the smoke of his cheap brand would linger on him enough that Jordi would get charged a fee for the smell. That was only if Jordi had gone through legitimate channels for his car, and the odds were only about 60:40 about that, but the small rebellion made him feel better. 

Jordi had a Mercedes SUV, because of course he did. It was parked on the middle line of two parallel parking spots, both with the meter fed. Aiden found himself reluctantly impressed that Jordi had managed to find two empty street parking spots at once in this city. It was a rarity, from what he’d seen. They got in, but Jordi refused to hand the keys over when Aiden held out his hand.

“It’s a push button start, Pearce,” he said. “Keeps you from just leaving me on the side of the road, since it only works when I’m in here with you.”

Aiden had considered it, but not very seriously. Jordi seemed to bounce back from almost everything. It would probably cause him more problems than it solved. He grunted noncommittally and pulled out into the busy early evening traffic.

“This doesn’t seem like your kind of city,” Jordi commented as he drove. “You seemed pretty entrenched in Chicago, before.”

“Things change,” Aiden said, shortly. He knew he was giving things away with his tone, but he couldn’t help it. He needed to stay away from Nicky and Jacks and he knew it, but he didn’t have to be happy about it. “Atlanta might be a copycat, but at least it’s a real city. Better than anything else around here.”

“Well, better Atlanta than _Birmingham_ or somewhere,” Jordi said, his tone making it clear that he thought Birmingham was somewhere around the eighth circle of hell. Aiden agreed, personally. 

“There’s someone I’ve been tracking here,” he said abruptly. “Sinclair. Glenn Sinclair. His finances are pretty dirty. Dirty even for someone in finance. I think he’s backing most of the traffickers here,” he said. Business was easier to talk about than Chicago, and by extension his family still there. 

“And you think he’s got enough hidden money to be worth it?” Jordi asked, but it was a rhetorical question. Aiden didn’t have the slightest compunction about relocating the accounts of traffickers into his own personal funds. He’d do better with them than the government would, anyway, keeping them tied up in the courts for years.

Aiden didn’t bother answering. “I’m trying to get a feel for where he hangs out,” he said, concentrating on the traffic snarl in front of him. In lieu of other directions, he was heading for the room he was staying in. He did need to take this jacket off. “I heard he had a taste for country-western places.”

Jordi made a sound in the back of his throat. “And you thought a place named Rawhide might be a good place to start for something like that. Well, I hate to break it to you, Pearce, but that place is probably a little too queer for your target.” 

Aiden had gotten that idea, of course, but his shoulders still tensed and he had to keep himself from clutching the steering wheel hard enough his knuckles went white. “How do you know that?” he asked. 

“Well, I’ve been there a couple of times, obviously,” Jordi said. “They’re the only place in the area that does custom work, and it’s a good place to check out while I’m waiting for my tailor to be finished.” 

“That’s what he said,” Aiden said, “the clerk, when I asked about my jacket.” He wanted to ask about how comfortable, exactly, Jordi felt in such a queer place, but years of silence about exactly what he liked held him back. He and Jordi didn’t have that kind of relationship, the one where they could talk about who they liked fucking, anyway. 

“That jacket does need some help,” Jordi said. “In fact, your whole wardrobe does, but keeping that jacket in good shape is a good place to start. What the hell made you come down here in _layers_ , anyway?”

“I had to put my clothes somewhere,” Aiden said, trying to avoid the urge to touch his mouth. He already wanted another cigarette. 

“What was wrong with your bag?” Jordi asked. 

“All my guns were in there, Jordi,” Aiden said, rolling his eyes. “That’s more important.”

“And you didn’t take more than one bag because…?” Jordi asked.

Aiden could have put his second bag onto the bus as the possession of another passenger, one who only existed in the depths of ctOS, he supposed, but he hadn't felt like hauling another heavy bag around on public transit. “I don't need three outfits a day like you do,” he said. 

“No, but it wouldn’t hurt you to have at least one decent outfit. Especially not trailing a guy who works in finance. Bet he lives in Buckhead or something. You’d stand out like a sore thumb there.” From the corner of his eye, Aiden saw Jordi make some sort of gesture that presumably illustrated the unacceptable nature of his clothes. And sure, they were a little worn, but any of them that had visible stains or holes got retired to wrap his guns, or to use as rags when he bothered to clean them. Aiden liked comfortable clothes. They felt better broken in.

“Aren’t country bars somewhere businessmen go to slum it?” Aiden asked. He knew where the Buckhead stop on the train line was, but he had no idea what the district was like - or country bars, for that matter. They were a little thin on the ground in Chicago.

“Not in this town,” Jordi said. “There’s not many of ‘em, and it’s mostly rich white people that go there.”

Aiden had had an idea that the south was riddled with country joints, with sawdust floors and a singer wailing - Dolly Parton or Johnny Cash or something on a scratchy microphone. He’d packed with that in mind. He wasn’t sure if there was anything he’d brought that could pass muster. At least Jordi was useful for some background briefing. Maybe Aiden should have done a little more looking into the city before he left. But it was too late now.

He pulled into the parking lot of his hotel and slammed the car door. Jordi was following him. Even if Aiden couldn't hear his footsteps, he'd know. He wasn't lucky enough for Jordi to get bored and leave. 

Sure enough, Jordi followed him in. Under his scrutiny, the space felt even more out of place in Aiden's life than it had when he arrived. Jordi knew the kind of places he normally stayed in. This felt bizarrely like he was trying to live up to Jordi's standards, and Aiden resolved to be as uncooperative as possible the rest of the day to ward off that impression. 

Jordi, however, didn't have a comment for the room. He saved all his attention for the pile of clean clothes Aiden hadn't bothered to fold lying on the bed. 

“Did you do any background work before you showed up here? At all?” he asked, looking at the haphazard heap. “No one here has ever heard of layering, and you brought long-sleeved undershirts and real jeans.”

“It's May, Jordi, not mid-July,” Aiden felt compelled to point out. May in Atlanta felt kind of like mid-July in Chicago, though, except for the arctic air conditioning in all of the businesses. He was beginning to see what the clerk meant by a jacket making sense. 

“Summer starts up early in the south,” Jordi said dismissively. “You've never seen a Tennessee Williams play?” 

No, he hadn't, but saying that was just asking for trouble. “What does Tennessee Williams have to do with my clothes?” 

“Well, he'd be ashamed of them, for one,” Jordi said. He was going through the clothes like he thought there would be something different at the bottom. That would be an accomplishment, considering that there were only about four outfits there. He made a noise that Aiden could best describe as ‘disgusted’, and straightened up. “That's it?” 

“What else would I need?” Aiden asked. He regretted it almost immediately. 

“Something that you won't suffocate in?” Jordi asked. “Come on. Take your jacket off and push your sleeves up. I'll hold your damn gun. It's a good thing you ran across me. You're sure going to need my help.”

“Help with what?” Aiden asked warily. 

“Blending in. Come on, Pearce. We're going shopping.”

* * *

The store Jordi directed them to didn't look too over the top from the outside, and Aiden cautiously began to hope. He'd protested, of course, all the way out to the car and most of the way to the shop. But Jordi was like a force of nature. He almost always got his way. So here they were, in the tiny parking lot facing a brick storefront of a menswear boutique, according to the sign. He didn't see any suits, and the shirt on the model in the poster on one window was plaid. This wasn't a Bullseye, but maybe it wouldn't be as painful as he'd been expecting. 

The store, when he followed Jordi in, seemed to ooze trendy from every corner, what with the light walls and floor, the dim spot lighting, and the industrial pipe left deliberately exposed on the ceiling. Some of the prints on the shirts made him wince, especially the ones that reflected the light, but it all looked comfortable, at least. Well. As long as he avoided looking at the wall by the fitting rooms. He understood that places like this sold underwear. He just hadn't known it was the kind of underwear he would have expected on those magazines he used to furtively page through as a teenager.

Jordi hadn't so much as glanced at that wall, and he'd avoided the metallic and shiny shirts, too. He was currently sorting through a rack of t-shirts that Aiden could maybe see himself wearing. Some of them, at least. The ones that were mostly black. Aiden drifted closer, unsettled without the weight of his gun at his back. He'd refused to hand it over to Jordi until they pulled into the parking lot, not ready to be without its familiar weight. Being unarmed in public was worse than being naked. 

Aiden didn't know why he'd handed it over. He hadn't forgotten that time Jordi had tried to kill him for the money. But it… felt different this time, somehow. And the money would be better with him alive to send it out of Sinclair's accounts. Jordi didn't have his expertise with computer security. So there was that, at least - a motivation he could trust. 

Jordi's motivation for picking out clothes for him was a little less clear. Maybe he just liked making Aiden uncomfortable. He sure enjoyed it enough with the rest of the population. The bright yellow of the shirt he was examining critically was a point in that column. 

He held the shirt up in front of Aiden as he drew closer, tilting his head. “Not a bad color for you,” he said. “Here, try this on. Fitting rooms are that way.”

Aiden tried to examine the shirt that was thrust at him. “Joie de vivre? For me? Really?” 

“It's ironic, as the kids say,” Jordi told him. There was a smirk edging in at the corners of his mouth. Aiden couldn't believe he found this funny. “Go on. I need to see how it fits before I can find anything else.”

Bundled quickly into the fitting room, Aiden found the shirt was at least a size smaller than he normally wore. He burned enough calories to justify most of the crap he ate, but some of it still insisted on clinging to his middle, and he wasn't exactly eager to show that off. But he pulled the shirt on anyway. It would serve Jordi right if he popped a stitch in it and the other man had to pay for something Aiden couldn't even wear. 

Surprisingly, while a little tighter across the chest than he would have preferred, the shirt wasn't tight enough to emphasize his stomach. It draped down loosely from his chest instead. He hated to admit it, but the lighter fabric was an almost instant relief in the sticky air, still prevalent even inside the shop, since the front door was propped open. It didn't look too out of place with his worn jeans and buckled boots, either. The color and the print, though, were still too much. Attention-grabbing. Aiden hunched his shoulders automatically, looking at his reflection in the full-length mirror, like if he tried hard enough he could hide how vividly yellow the damn thing was. 

“I'm not wearing this anywhere,” he said, projecting his voice loud enough so that Jordi, still three racks away looking at shirts again, could hear him. 

The curtain dividing the small cubicle of the dressing room from the main floor of the shop was flung open, and Aiden had to suppress his reflexive flinch. He couldn't suppress his reflexive grab toward the small of his back, but he tried to turn it into a shrug as he turned to face Jordi, who was apparently a lot closer than he'd thought. 

“It wouldn't kill you to add just a little pop of color from time to time,” Jordi told him. “Wear that under a dark jacket, pow! A little pizazz goes a long way.”

“A long way towards getting me spotted in the dark,” Aiden said. 

“Oh, bull and shit,” Jordi said. “Like you ever went the stealthy route when you could punch it in the face instead. But if you insist, here's a couple of variations on basic black for you.” He shoved another few shirts into Aiden's hands and was gone before he could respond, the curtain sliding back closed in his wake. 

Aiden had been plenty stealthy during the Merlaut job; he didn't know what Jordi was talking about. _He_ wasn't the one that called the cops to a crowded stadium. But arguing with Jordi when he was in this manic sort of mood was a recipe for disaster, so he just sighed and looked at the fabric in his hands. 

They were all black, but that was about the best he could say for them. One was almost a copy of the yellow shirt, with a different phrase in French he assumed was just as ironic as the first one. He put that one aside, feeling like he'd look too much like someone trying to pass as a teenager. It was better than the next shirt in the stack, though; black vertical stripes alternating with some kind of translucent black material, softer than mesh. That one he wasn't even going to try on. The last one was better. Black and white stripes interspersed with other stripes going a different way to create diagonal patterns wasn't exactly his favorite, but it was probably the best out of the stack he had. 

It was a tighter cut than the yellow shirt had been, but it seemed like that article in one of Nicky's endless stacks of women's magazines had been right: stripes were slimming, if they weren't horizontal. Aiden looked kind of like a walking barcode, but he'd worn a lot worse in the early nineties. The shirt breathed, at least, and he opened the dressing room curtain so he could test his range of motion in it - better than he could in the tiny dressing room, anyway. 

He'd barely walked three feet into the main floor of the shop before Jordi slipped around a corner, shoving a stack of pants into his hands. “You're what, a 30-32?” he asked. 

“32-32,” Aiden answered, slightly baffled. “My jeans aren't good enough either?”

“They don't have real jeans down here,” Jordi told him with exaggerated patience. “It's all cotton-polyester blends. If you want to deal with ball sweat all day, be my guest, but I like to let the boys breathe.”

“In a suit?” Aiden asked, looking almost involuntarily at the fly of Jordi's pants. In his experience, suits were even more stifling on a hot day. 

“That's why I'm down here,” Jordi said, catching his eye and smirking. He'd definitely caught that look. “Summer fabric, remember? Go and put these on before you dehydrate.”

There wasn't anything in the stack as wild as the yellow shirt, just two each of an olive green pant and a gray one with a thin plaid pattern. They weren't what he would have picked for himself, but they weren't khakis or dress pants either. Aiden tried the smaller pair of the green ones first, since this store apparently didn't use standard sizing. 

They were loose, which he hadn't quite expected from his experience with the shirts, but way too short - they'd barely brush the tops of his boots when they were on. The larger size was the same, just more room in the waist. Aiden frowned at himself. He was tall, sure, but not that tall. He couldn't help but be reminded of growing out of his pants too fast when he was a teenager, without enough money for a new pair. He didn't like it. 

The plaid pair was worse, but there were drawstrings at the cuffs that told him that they were supposed to be like this. That helped, a little, but he still looked ridiculous. He was going to put his jeans back on and tell Jordi he could make him look stupid some other way when - speak of the devil - the man himself came swanning back through the curtain like he'd never heard of privacy. 

“You almost look presentable,” Jordi told him, in a mock-astonished voice. “Come on, let's go check out.”

“I'm not buying these pants,” Aiden said. “They look ridiculous.”

“I've never noticed you care about looking ridiculous any other time,” Jordi said. “They fit and they're cooler, why do you care what they look like?”

“Because I'm not sixteen any more,” Aiden said, putting the rest of that aside. “I can afford to cover my damn ankles now. Besides, what if I get shot at?” he added hurriedly. Jordi, with his Mercedes SUV and slick, expensive taste, didn't need the ammunition of his childhood money struggles to pick at him more. 

“Oh, don't be so arrogant,” Jordi said. “You're not famous cross-country. Besides, this is the fashion now. If you dress to blend in, you'll get shot at a lot less.”

“It's the fashion to look like you can't afford to replace the pants you outgrew?” Aiden asked. He was pretty skeptical about the idea, but if this actually was the fashion, Jordi might have a point. Aiden did try to dress to be part of the background most of the time. 

Jordi stopped just short of physically grabbing him by the shoulders, instead turning the motion into an extravagant gesture towards the main body of the shop. “Take a look,” he said, indicating the mannequins and posters scattered around. 

Now that Aiden was paying attention to the clothes themselves instead of being distracted by the amount of bare skin on display in the advertising, he could see that yes, the pants he could see mostly ended about where the pair he was wearing did. It still sent a sense of squirming discomfort through him, though, to think about dropping the amount of money the price tag indicated on pants that didn't cover him up properly. 

Jordi must have seen the indecision on his face, because he sighed deeply, as if Aiden was the greatest trial he'd ever faced. Aiden thought it was the other way around. 

“Look, Pearce,” he said. “Walk around in them a couple of minutes. Try some moves, make sure they still work. If you still hate them after that, I'll try and see if they have some with a longer inseam in in the back from a different season, or something.” He made a face like the idea pained him, but if Jordi of all people was willing to compromise, Aiden almost had to meet him halfway.

“All right,” he agreed. “And after that we're done?” 

“After that we're done _here_ ,” Jordi corrected, smirking. “There's still a lot of A-Town left to see.”

The pants… weren't as bad as he was afraid they would be. With a quick glance around to make sure that Jordi had the cashier's full attention, Aiden tried a couple of his more athletic moves that relied on the legs. The thinner, looser material of the pants gave him a little extra range of motion that he almost surprised himself with. Not bad for the wrong side of forty. And the drawstrings kept the legs in place so he didn't have to worry about loose fabric flapping around and distracting him. 

He headed back to the changing room to put his old clothes on, only to find Jordi had left one more piece of clothing there for him. It wasn't a shirt; it was cut too loosely and of the wrong material. But it was too short sleeved and light to be a proper jacket. Aiden cautiously put it on over the outfit he had on. He could see what it was for immediately; the drape of the overshirt would hide the shape of his gun, and the fabric itself would let him breathe. Plus the camo print would go well with any of the colors he tended to wear. This, at least, was one piece he didn't intend to argue about. 

Jordi already had his things piled up by the register, and the cashier took the pants and the not-jacket with the bare minimum of small talk. Aiden paid and headed to the door with a sense of relief. 

Aiden pulled the overshirt out of the bags as soon as they reached the car and shrugged it on before he got in. When Jordi shut his door, Aiden didn't start the car up; instead, he turned to Jordi as soon as both doors were closed. The parking lot was empty of other people, and the spot between his shoulders was starting to itch like someone was watching him. If they were, he'd be dead already, he knew that, but he wanted the reassuring weight of his favorite pistol against his back again. 

“Gun,” he said, holding his hand out. He'd been out for over an hour staring at himself in the mirror - not one of his favorite activities - and it had been almost three since his last cigarette. He didn't have the patience to be polite with Jordi right now. 

Surprisingly, Jordi didn't fight him, for once. “Finally,” he said, reaching under his suit jacket. “Thing's been digging into my kidney forever. How have you not shot yourself in the ass yet?” 

Jordi hadn't had a holster of the proper size on him and so had been forced to resort to carrying the gun Aiden's way - tucked into his belt - with the requisite amount of bitching about the lines of his suit. 

“Maybe I've just got better trigger discipline than you,” Aiden said. His voice was dry. 

Jordi still shot him a look as he handed the gun over. “I doubt that,” he said. 

Either Jordi ran hot or his summer suits kept in more heat than he wanted to let on, because the pistol was surprisingly warm in Aiden's hand. It felt strange as he tucked it into his own belt, hotter against his skin than it should have been, like Jordi's heat was somehow sinking into him. But he felt better - more secure - with the familiar weight on him. 

“Where to now?” he asked, feeling magnanimous now that he was - he admitted to himself - a little cooler all over. And the car was a pleasure to drive.

“I need something to eat, and I bet you're missing a taste of home,” Jordi said. “Let's grab a pizza.”

* * *

If he was ever tempted to listen to Jordi again, Aiden thought, he'd just have to remember this moment. The moment when he was anticipating the familiar heavy warmth of a Chicago deep dish filling his stomach, and instead he got… this.

The little pizzeria was the definition of a hole in the wall - handprints on the glass, dimly lit, with a thin scum of grease on all the surfaces in the cramped space - and that had raised his hopes. But all the features looked too new to be a neighborhood institution. Aiden bet this place - Lucky's - hadn't been here any more than eighteen months. He'd insisted in the car that Jordi was going to pay if he was the one picking the restaurant, and Jordi had agreed with the bare minimum of kvetching. That should have set off all his alarm bells right there, but he was still feeling generous and maybe a little bit warm in a way that had nothing to do with the weather. He'd thought, since they were both eating, there was no way Jordi would take them somewhere too awful. Aiden had eaten a lot of cheap, bad food in the past, and the south was supposed to be big on good food. How bad could it be? 

Bad, as it turned out. Jordi led them to a small table, but Aiden could still catch a glimpse of the kitchen as they walked by. There were only two employees in the place, and one other customer. It wasn't precisely peak dinner hours, but the place was two blocks from a college dorm, and it looked cheap. It should have had more than one student ordering at the counter. 

Then he looked at the laminated menu, and the photos on it. 

“What the hell is this?” he asked flatly. 

“It's a menu, Pearce. You order things from it so the poor chef only has to know about twenty dishes instead of all of them.”

“Not that,” Aiden said impatiently, frowning at the snide look on Jordi's face. “This.” He stabbed a finger at the biggest photo, right next to a dizzying array of toppings. 

“A Chicago-style pizza with goat cheese, sausage and eggplant,” Jordi said, reading off the caption under the photo with unnecessary dramatics. 

“That is not a Chicago-style pizza,” Aiden said, almost growling. “It has _goat cheese_ and _eggplant_. Where the hell is the tomato sauce?” 

“Under the cheese, maybe?” Jordi asked, raising his eyebrows. 

“That's _not_ Chicago style,” Aiden repeated, louder this time. “What the hell -”

He paused for a moment, attention caught by the other customer's pizza. He watched a slice being pulled out of the box with a sense of horror - the crust was toppling under the weight of all the toppings, and even worse, it looked soggy. 

“I'm not eating here,” he told Jordi, quietly but emphatically. “This is the worst pizza I've ever seen.”

Jordi wasn't even pretending not to be laughing at him any more. “You know,” he said, “they say bad pizza is like bad sex. Even if it's bad, it's still good, because it's pizza.”

Aiden thought that Jordi would be singing a different tune if he'd ever had the kind of wincing, awkward sex Aiden had had with women in his teens, but that was beside the point. “That's not pizza,” he said. “It's hipster pie.” He unlocked the car, but slapped the key fob down in front of Jordi. He had some of his things still in it, but he wasn't sticking around to watch someone slander the name of Chicago pizza with that stuff. 

Jordi didn't lock him out before he was all the way to the car, probably because he knew Aiden could get into it anyway and was too annoyed to care if he was making a scene. Or maybe he was too busy laughing. Aiden didn't care either way, as long as he could get his shit and leave that insult to the name of “pizzeria” behind him. 

After he got a few hundred yards away, Aiden took a few deep breaths and consciously dropped his shoulders from their place around his ears. The short-sleeved overshirt thing worked to conceal the bulge of his gun, but it wasn’t as thick as the jacket he’d been wearing before, so the shape of the metal showed more if he wasn’t careful. He really should get the jacket patched up. Embarrassing misunderstanding aside, the clerk had been helpful, and since Aiden had just ditched his guide, he could use a little more local information.

* * *

The sun was almost all the way down by the time he made it back to Rawhide, but the shop hours said they were open late into the night. Made sense with their clientele, Aiden guessed. But it was a Thursday night and a good time for a late dinner, so the store was mostly empty. The two other men inside - both black, tall, and good-looking, one with a lineup and one with microbraids - seemed to have whatever they were doing well in hand and were across the room from the clerk. The same clerk from that afternoon, thankfully - Aiden didn’t want to explain the stress his gun had left on his jacket to anyone less understanding.

The man caught his eye as Aiden finished surveying the room, and Aiden pulled his jacket out of one of the shopping bags he was still carrying. “Still less complicated than your custom orders?” he asked, laying it on the counter.

The clerk made a humming noise in his throat, running his hands over the jacket. “Should be,” he said, testing the shoulder seams and feeling the elbows. “Our customs guy went home for the day, but I can condition it for you before I leave tonight, and he’ll have it fixed up by tomorrow afternoon, probably. He likes to take a break from the detail work every so often. That work for you?”

Aiden shifted a little, thinking. It’d probably be smart to stake Sinclair out for a little while before he made the hit, and he still didn’t know exactly where the man liked to hang around. Besides, tomorrow was a Friday, anyway - probably a better time to hit the hot spots. “Yeah, I can make that work,” he said.

The clerk nodded, but he seemed to hesitate for a moment before speaking. “Look, I know it’s not my business, but… I’ve seen a lot of shit go wrong, so I’ve gotta ask. That guy, from before. Was he… bothering you?”

There was a look on the other man’s face Aiden wasn’t used to receiving - something concerned, a little, but mostly protective. Halfway through opening his mouth to tell the clerk ‘he always bothers me’, he stopped. It dawned on him that this man worked in a gay sex shop in the south, which didn’t have a much better reputation for tolerance than the mob did, and maybe the community looked out for each other.

He must have been quiet for a little too long, because the clerk added, “Look, if you’re in some kind of trouble, I know a couple cops who’ll care more about stopping it than about that gun. You’re white, so it’s not a big deal. They can -”

Aiden cut him off, shaking his head. “No, it’s nothing like that. He’s just a guy I wasn’t looking to run into away from home.”

The clerk looked skeptical. “You sure? He had ‘shitty ex’ written all over him, from what I saw.”

Aiden choked. He wasn’t going to deny he’d had the occasional thought or two in that direction, but he’d cut them off before they could develop further than that. It was safer that way. “No, nothing like that,” he repeated. “He, uh, took me around the city,” he said, too off-balance to come up with something else.

The clerk’s expression went less worried and more knowing. “Oh, he did, huh?” he asked.

Aiden shrugged. “I needed clothes, and I guess he was bored,” he said. 

“Nicer than he seems?” the clerk asked.

“No, he’s just as much of an asshole as you’d think,” Aiden said.

“Uh-huh,” the clerk said, but his expression had morphed all the way into a smirk now. “Well, maybe you should take him out somewhere,” he said. “As a thank you.”

“I don’t really know anywhere,” Aiden said, blankly - but this was an opportunity for information on Sinclair he couldn’t pass up. “He likes, uh, country bars, though, I guess?”

“Country bars?” the man repeated. “Well, we don’t have a lot of those, but there’s a good one in Midtown. It’s right off the train stop, you can’t miss it.”

“Thanks,” Aiden said. “So I’ll… pick up my jacket tomorrow.”

“See you then,” the clerk said.

As Aiden was turning to go out the door, he thought he heard one of the other customers ask the clerk, “Did you really…” but he was out on the street before he could hear the rest.

* * *

Aiden hadn't looked in the bags from the clothes store since the cashier had loaded them up yesterday, so he wasn't surprised to find that the shirts he'd set to the side had made their way into the bag. It explained his final bill a little better, anyway. He’d just thought Jordi had dragged him to an obscenely expensive store - it would have been typical.

He was, despite himself, glad for the price tags on the clothes. He’d checked out Midtown a little before he’d run into Jordi, and even in the daytime, the vibe had run trendy and mostly twentysomething. Aiden’s age was already going to be working against him; he was just lucky Sinclair was in his late 30s, so if he stuck out, he wouldn’t be the only one. A cheap outfit was just asking for the kind of attention that ended with security and his face somewhere he’d have to erase it. He still wasn’t wearing the damn yellow shirt, though.

In the dimming light, the black shirt with "pas de chance" written on it looked less like Aiden wished he was still in college and more in line with the rest of his trendy wardrobe. It wouldn't clash with the patterned pants like the other shirt he'd liked - weren't you only supposed to wear one pattern at once? - so he pulled it out to go with his plaid pants and the overshirt.

Aiden’s hair never did anything he wanted it to, but luckily for him, flat-brimmed caps were still In, at least as much as he could see from walking around the city, and it went with the casual-but-expensive look he was sporting, just like his worn boots. Feeling sufficiently prepared for a night out - or at least as prepared as he could be for a bunch of drunk strangers in his personal space - he walked out, fixing Sinclair’s image in his mind.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a general rule, I don't think fanfic is a good platform for activism. However, as this story features Atlanta so heavily, I would be remiss not to say that the vibrant arts, food, and culture that I love about the city is due in large part to black people. Atlanta's black population has made the city what it is. However, like many others, they are subject to racist police. Black lives matter, there should be justice for Rayshard Brooks and many others, fuck the police. If you have some money to spare, the Atlanta Solidarity Fund could always use your help.

The clerk was right - Aiden couldn’t have missed the club if he tried. The neon sign reading “Bullriders” in a curly Western font would probably have been enough, but the large flashing bull horns above it really sold the deal. It was a little… well, more than he’d expected from a country bar, but Jordi had told him they were expensive, so he supposed being flashy wasn’t out of the question. He’d learned not a lot about Atlanta was the way he expected it to be.

The blatant up-and-down he got from the doorman as he checked Aiden’s ID was definitely unexpected, but flattering, given the amount of attractive men spilling out of the doors. And… very few women, come to think of it. Sinclair seemed the type for strip clubs, though, so Aiden didn’t think much of the front desk offering singles and twos (he got a handful of each). That was, he didn’t until he got into the club proper past the anteroom.

It was dark outside of the stages, like most strip clubs - except for an area with a mechanical bull in the middle, for which the club was probably named - but unlike most strip clubs Aiden had been to, the people on the stage were men. Extremely… attractive men. Aiden slowed to a stop, only just barely keeping his mouth from dropping open. He only moved out of the way when a group behind him - also all men of various ages - jostled his back.

The clerk must have made a mistake, or been playing a prank on him, because this kind of information on Sinclair would definitely made it onto the IRC - anything sensitive was fair game. Aiden should leave, find someplace to sit and do some research, find out where Sinclair was actually likely to be. But… it had been a while, since before Lena died, that he’d felt comfortable enough to indulge himself. A little while here couldn’t hurt. He’d already gotten the cash, anyway.

Most of the tables closest to the stages were already occupied, unsurprisingly, but Aiden wasn't really interested in getting that close to a crowd, so it didn't bother him. He sidled up to the bar and scanned for an area that was a little quieter while he waited for the bartender to be free enough to get him a beer. Ah, there - a little corner booth. It was free presumably because only two people could fit, and they'd both have an awkward but workable sight line to the stage. 

Beer in hand, he made his way through the crowd. It was mostly men dressed like him, but there were a few outliers in obviously more casual clothes, and a few more in suits. Maybe Aiden could have come in his regular clothes after all, and he felt a surge of indignance towards Jordi for that ridiculous shopping trip. 

At first he thought he was seeing things, just thinking about the other fixer too much, annoyance conjuring his image from a man in a similar suit. But no - Aiden was pressed close enough in the crowd that his bare forearm brushed the man's jacket, and that was definitely the Kevlar lining Jordi had talked about. The suit fabric was light and airy enough that Aiden could feel the weave through it. 

Oh, shit. This was the last thing he needed. Of course Jordi would show up the one time Aiden decided to let himself blow off some steam. Automatically, he ducked his head down and tugged at the brim of his hat with his free hand. He really would have liked the tall collar of his trench coat right about now, even if it would be suffocating in the close, smoky atmosphere of the club. He was almost to the booth. With any luck Jordi would brush off the accidental touch and Aiden could duck out - or at least out of immediate line of sight. 

As always since the Merlaut job - since Lena's death - luck wasn't on his side. Jordi didn't quite turn to see him, but there were a few reflective surfaces in the club, and Jordi had positioned himself so he could use a few of them to make sure no one was sneaking up behind him. Aiden couldn't get through the mass of people fast enough to miss the sudden flick of interest in the other fixer's body language. He made his way desperately forward. This was why he avoided places like this, he was remembering. 

Jordi slid into the booth with him when he made it there, of course. Aiden hadn't expected anything else. He'd expected that Cheshire-cat grin to be on Jordi's face, too, and some traces of it were definitely there, but mostly Jordi just looked… intent. It wasn't an unpleasant look to have focused on him - or it wasn't if Aiden wasn't anticipating blowback from this. 

“Well, well,” Jordi said, just loud enough to be heard over the pounding - country rock, or whatever the hell was playing in here that fit the theme. “When I saw you coming out of Rawhide, I'd thought maybe it was your kind of place, but I wasn't sure. What a surprise to run into you here.”

“I didn't think this was your kind of place, either,” Aiden said, nerves making his voice more gravelly than he expected. He pulled out a cigarette for something to fiddle with, but didn't light it yet. He had a feeling that he'd need a smoke by the time this conversation ended. 

“What, you think I know where to find all the hottest gay spots in this city by accident?” Jordi asked. He must have read something on Aiden's face, because he started laughing. “No, I ended up here on purpose, Pearce, unlike you, apparently.” He paused a minute, and then grinned at Aiden - not the smirky one Aiden had gotten used to when Jordi thought something was funny, something more akin to the predatory one he wore when blowing shit up. “But you didn't leave, did you?” 

“No,” Aiden said, and coughed. “Haven't had a chance to indulge in… a long time. Hard to, in our line of work.”

Jordi snorted at him. “No, you just don't make the time. But you're here now. Let's… indulge.” He knocked back the dregs of whatever was in the rocks glass in his hand and deliberately relaxed in the booth, keeping his eyes locked on Aiden's. 

Aiden swallowed, and remembered the cigarette in his hands. He put it to his lips and lit it so he didn't have to come up with a response. This was dangerous. Jordi was dangerous. But Aiden's life was nothing but dangerous since Lena died. Since before that. He blew out a long plume of smoke, nerves steadying. 

"If we're indulging, I need another drink," he said, knocking back the last of his beer. He didn't miss Jordi's eyes on his throat. 

Jordi smiled at him, sharp. "Your round next," he said, and stood up to go to the bar. 

He came back with two glasses of expensive whiskey, but that was all right. Just meant that when it was Aiden's round he could buy them both the craft red ale that was this place's answer to Budweiser. And the whiskey was good, smoky with just a hint of bite. Aiden was happy to sip it while he watched the stages - occupied by a redhead built like a truck and a skinny Latino man - and flirted. 

Jordi's idea of flirting, it turned out, was to up the salaciousness of his banter while they talked shop. Which explained a lot about - well, every interaction they'd ever had. Here, now, with no pressure but what he gave himself and knowing they were both on the same page, Aiden let himself lean into it. Definitely the most pleasant rundown he ever had, if not the most secure - but the music was loud enough to cover all but snatches of their conversation. 

They'd only been sitting long enough for Aiden to get their next round when the music faded out and the lighting changed. A spotlight came up in front of the mechanical bull, and an attractive black man with microbraids wearing a black fringed leather vest with chaps and boots to match stood in front of it, holding a microphone. Aiden recognized him. One of the customers from Rawhide. He tilted his head, trying to figure out what was going on. This was different from the places he had been to in the past, and he shot a look at Jordi to see if he was confused. He seemed… anticipatory instead. Aiden turned back to the spotlight, taking a pull of his beer.

"It's Friday night, gentlemen, the time has come! If you're new here to Bullriders, this is our main event. If you can stay on the bull for a full song, you win a private dance from our very own Rhinestone Cowboy!" Fringed Vest said, to cheers and whoops from the crowd. A light went on over the main stage, highlighting another attractive black man, this one with a lineup - the other half of the couple Aiden had seen. His outfit was a mirror of the man with the microphone, but all in white - white vest, white boots, white leather chaps - and studded with rhinestones. He also wore a cowboy hat pulled deep over his eyes that the man in black was missing. When the lights hit his outfit, setting the rhinestones glimmering, the volume from the crowd increased significantly. 

"You do all that parkour shit, but I bet you couldn't stay on that bull," Jordi said, under his breath.

Aiden snorted. He knew exactly what kind of condition his body was in and didn't want to take that bet. "Me? What about you, rooftop sniper?" he shot back.

Jordi raised an eyebrow, but before he could answer, the man in black was talking again, having calmed down the crowd. 

"Any volunteers tonight?" he called out. "Who thinks they can win a dance?" 

Before the noise from the crowd could bear fruit, Jordi stood up, and seemed to catch the man in black's attention immediately. "Mister Snappy Dresser in the back," he said, "we love a man in a linen suit. You think you can ride the bull?" 

Smirking, Jordi made his way down front to friendly boos and small whoops of encouragement. "I guess we'll all find out together," he told the man in black, who laughed.

"That's a good attitude," he said. "What's your name, Mister Snappy Dresser?" 

"William," Jordi said, sending a smirk Aiden's way. 

"Well, William, get on the damn bull already," the man in black said, giving him a little shove. And Jordi… did.

The crowd apparently knew the song that started up when Jordi was safely astride, half of them humming along with the rapid series of "dum da da dum"s until the man in black hushed them as the guitar and fiddle started up with the bull. Aiden didn't know what he expected, really. Jordi was reasonably athletic, so he was sure to last at least thirty seconds. Maybe a minute, even. But - Aiden squinted in the low light of the club. It didn't actually seem like Jordi was using his hands for support. Actually, he looked like he was… moving, maybe to fling himself off. And then the first chorus started, and he stood up on the back of the mechanical bull. 

The noise from the crowd was suddenly deafening. Jordi held his arms out at his sides, using his hips and knees to stay steady on the bucking beneath him, and slowly made a full circle, grinning at the crowd, as the speakers yelled _"Save a horse, ride a cowboy!"_ over the cheers and whoops of the people gathered in front. Then, as the next part of the song hit, he dropped into a squat and straddled the bull again, this time backwards. Aiden told himself he wasn't watching the way Jordi's suit pants pulled over his ass and thighs as he moved, but… he was. No point lying to himself about it. 

The crowd was clapping along now, and Jordi shuffled his hands under himself until he was sitting side-saddle on the bull, facing Aiden, hips bucking and rolling. Jordi jerked his head, a little come-hither motion Aiden was helpless to resist, and as the song kicked into a second chorus he swallowed the last of his beer and made his way to the edge of the crowd. 

Jordi popped up on the bull again, accompanied by some wolf whistles and clapping. He winked at the crowd and jumped a couple of times at the peak of the bull's movement, eliciting gasps when it looked like he couldn't make it back on properly. He shimmied a little as the chorus reached its peak and a slightly sexier beat started up. Aiden felt his face get hot as Jordi's suit jacket started making its way down his elbows, slow, like he was the one getting paid to strip. He wasn't alone. The men around him whooped, loud and wild, swaying with the music. And then Jordi looked up, jacket off, flicked his shirtsleeves up his forearms with a few economical motions, and used the momentum from the bull to throw his jacket right at Aiden. 

The men around him yelled, slapping his back in congratulations. Aiden took in a deep breath, turned on and a little out of his head, and went back to the table. As he sat down, the chorus kicked up again and Jordi… bent over backwards. Aiden fumbled for a cigarette. The man was bent in a full backbend on a mechanical bull. The position pulled his pants tight over his thighs and crotch and emphasized the strength in his arms. Then, as what seemed like the last repetition of _"Save a horse, ride a cowboy!"_ rang out, Jordi went into a handstand before dropping back on the bull, in the same position he started. And all Aiden could think, as the music cut out and the cheers grew louder, was, _I plan to_.

"Well, William, you're a dark horse," the man in black said to Jordi as he got down. "You looking for a job?" 

Jordi laughed. "I don't do g-strings," he said. "Or hats." 

The other man pulled an exaggerated pout. "Too bad. Well, you've more than earned a dance with Rhinestone. You wanna pick out a song while he gets the room ready?"

"Actually," Jordi said, "since I put on such a show for everyone, I wondered if I could change things up. Just a little bit." 

The man with the microphone looked suddenly wary. "Like how?" he asked. 

Jordi turned to point out Aiden, still dumbly holding Jordi's coat at the table. "I want to give my dance to him."

The man in black laughed, suddenly relieved. "Oh, you're here with a date? Sure, we can do that. You can stay in the room, too, if you follow all the usual rules." 

Jordi nodded, beckoning Aiden over. "How about it, huh? You'd like a dance with Rhinestone, right?"

Aiden looked over at Rhinestone, in white, listening to their conversation in interest. He gave Aiden a flirtatious smile when he caught his eye. Sure, he wouldn't say no to him. He was more interested in spending time with _Jordi_ , but if this was what Jordi wanted… "Sure," he said. 

"Sure," Jordi echoed. Then he looked at the man in black. "I don't care what song, he can pick," he said, indicating the man in white. Rhinestone tipped his cowboy hat and ducked down a side hall to get set up. 

"Are you sure about that? He's got trashy taste," the man in black said, a little fondly. 

"His taste is worse," Jordi said, reeling Aiden in with an arm over his shoulders. 

"Explains why I'm here with you," Aiden said, caught up in the feel of Jordi's body heat through just two thin shirts instead of the multiple layers they both normally wore. 

Jordi just laughed at him as the man in black looked at them both indulgently. "One round on the house for both of you while he gets set up, come on," he said. "My boys are going to rake it in tonight with the way you whipped the crowd up." 

It was Jordi's round, of course, but Aiden couldn't argue that he'd earned it. In short order they were both holding glasses of that smoky whiskey again, and the man in black had pulled them halfway down that side hall. 

"All right, gentlemen," he said, "all the usual rules. Rhinestone can touch you, but you can't touch him. We're not a full nude club so any tips go in the g-string. Your dance lasts for one song and one song only, and only one of you gets the performance." 

"You got it, boss-man," Jordi said, and Aiden nodded. He'd had a lap dance before, but never from a man. The whole experience had been awkward, for him as well as the girl, and he'd tipped her well for putting up with his complete lack of response. He hoped this experience would be different, and not just something else for Jordi to antagonize him with under the guise of flirting. 

Then they were led to a small room, darker than the rest of the club and bare except for a long padded bench and a speaker system, and Aiden didn't have any time left for nerves. Jordi indicated the bench for him and settled leaning against the wall by the door, directly across from Aiden, watching.

The door opened, and the dancer in white slipped in. He'd used the time to change his outfit - still white, still sparkly, but easier to get out of and not so rough on skin. The hat was still there, though. Aiden caught his eye and swallowed, feeling the weight of the dancer's gaze along with Jordi's. He felt immobilized. 

Then Rhinestone smiled, a gorgeous grin that lit up his face, and the tension broke. "Hey there, sugar," he said, in a deep warm voice. His dark brown skin gleamed in the low light as he walked towards Aiden. "Your cowboy sure can ride, huh?" 

Behind him, Jordi snorted, and Aiden cracked a grin. "You could say that," he said. 

"I can and I do," Rhinestone declared. He stopped in front of Aiden. "You ready?" 

Aiden nodded, and the dancer put his hands on the sparkling fringed vest as the music started, an electronic, drum machine heavy hip-hop track utterly at odds with his outfit. Aiden didn't once think about the disconnect once Rhinestone started moving. 

This was a different man than the friendly, joking one who'd broken the tension in the room. This man was the confident, in control one from the front of the club, and just because he had more clothes on didn't mean Aiden had any illusion of being in charge. Rhinestone rolled his body to drop the vest, showing off his abdominals and obliques, then turned to put his ass almost in Aiden's face before dipping it, showing off the line of his g-string under assless chaps. Aiden nearly leaned back in surprise - he didn't like strangers this close in his space - but Jordi was here, watching. He could let go. Enjoy. 

As the song went into its first chorus, Rhinestone put his hands on Aiden's knees, climbing into his lap. He put his face by Aiden's ear, almost but not quite grinding on him, and then he spoke. 

"You're looking for Glenn, right, sugar?" 

Aiden's blood froze and he clenched his hands into fists. Rhinestone grinned and tilted backwards, holding his hat on his head with one hand and putting the thumb of the other over his shiny silver buckle. Then he leaned back in. "Frankie at the shop vouched for you, says you're legit and you'll get rid of him." 

Aiden forcibly relaxed. The underground had the best information. He'd need to verify it, but if he'd stumbled on a good source by accident… well, it wouldn't be the first time a sex worker had helped him out. "We'll get rid of him," he promised, low. 

Rhinestone turned around and made a show of sliding his unbuckled belt up his back, then brought Aiden closer with a deft loop around his neck from behind. "I've got a friend at Platinum. She says some of her friends disappeared when they went home with him." He let Aiden go and then flipped around, shimmying out of the chaps and leaving a white g-string with a rhinestone outline of a bull's head and very sparkly white boots. 

"Seems like his MO," Aiden murmured when Rhinestone dropped back down. 

"He's been bothering her," Rhinestone said, dipping teasingly up and down. "She's got his address. She'll pass it along." 

"We'll take care of it," he said. The music was ending, and he fumbled in his wallet, finding three twenties and pulling them out. If he'd had more big bills, he would have passed them over. Information was worth paying for. As it was, Rhinestone proffered the part of the g-string waist just over his dick, and Aiden tucked the bills in very carefully. 

"Thanks, sugar," Rhinestone said, standing up and winking. "William, I think my friend Crystal over at Platinum might be more your speed. She's on tonight, maybe you should go check her out." 

Jordi couldn't have made out all the details of their conversation, but he was smart enough to know that something out of the ordinary had gone down. "You know, I might do that," he said. "The night is young." 

* * *

Aiden had learned his lesson after Poppy, and he never even approached the girl. Instead, he let Jordi throw one arm around him as they walked out and filled him in. It was easy enough to ask the doorman for directions - three blocks over and one block up - and to linger outside of it, smoking, while he sorted out which phone was Crystal's. He found the number that had been texting her nonstop, all sleazy compliments and veiled threats, and scrolled through. Just like that, they had an address, and he stubbed his cigarette out and followed Jordi to his car. 

"You think we can get this done tonight?" Aiden asked. He had other things he wanted to do with the rest of his evening, but he couldn't ignore a tip falling into his lap. 

Jordi hummed, looking at the address. "That's a pretty swanky condo," he said. "Probably high up. Not a lot of tall buildings around, should be easy to snipe." 

"He won't have bulletproof glass?" Aiden asked. Lucky Quinn had. 

"To stop my girl? Please," Jordi said. "It would have to be four inches thick and lose half the light. I bet there's floor to ceiling windows in the living room. Rich assholes hate their little getaways not looking quite right." 

"Obvious, though," Aiden said. "I need to get his information and we both want his money. I don't know if we'll have time if we do it that way."

They were almost at the car, so Jordi shoved the keys into Aiden's hands and moved away. "Let's drive by the building, scope it out. If you can convince the computer security you belong there, I have an idea."

* * *

Most of the units had balconies, which would make the job a lot quieter - if they could get Sinclair out on one. That's where Aiden came in. Jordi was convinced he could at least get Aiden into the condo, at which point either Aiden killed Sinclair himself or he lured him out on the balcony for Jordi. 

"Then we dig out the bullet, clean up our traces, leave some very incriminating evidence out, and push him over the balcony," Jordi said. "At this height, the body is mangled. By the time they figure out he died of a bullet wound, we'll be long gone." He wiggled his fingers like he'd done a magic trick he was particularly proud of. 

"Seems solid," Aiden allowed. "How do you think I'm going to get up there in the first place, though? A place this swanky has guards and staff, not just ctOS." 

He should have known better. Jordi grinned, a manic thing, and had him park in the underground garage of the building he was going to perch on. "We're going to make them think Sinclair has daddy issues," Jordi said. 

Aiden turned the car off and looked straight at him. "What?" he asked. 

Jordi didn't look back, too busy rummaging around in the glove box. He pulled out, of all things, an eyeliner stick and a jar of petroleum jelly. "We already know he likes to pay for sex - intimidate, whatever," he added at Aiden's glare - "and the staff must know it too. We just give them a different kind of sex to look for," he said. 

Aiden didn't have any better ideas, so he'd ended up with a ring of black around both eyes and the shine of Vaseline on his lips. Jordi had taken his hat away too, and fussed with his hair for a good ten minutes. Then he pronounced Aiden good enough to pass for a middle tier specialty escort - he said "textbook daddy sub", actually, but like hell was Aiden repeating that - and sent him to walk into the condo building. 

Convincing ctOS he belonged here was easy, but people were where Aiden fell through. He threw back his shoulders, adopted the look he wore when he just wanted everything to be quiet, and walked in. 

"Normally I would say the mouth touching is a good thing, but I still have the Vaseline, so stop messing up my hard work," Jordi said in his ear. Aiden aborted the tap to his lips - he hadn't meant to do that - and looked away from the building receptionist, who flicked her gaze to the elevator and then studiously ignored him. 

The guard discretely stationed by the elevators made a fine sweat break out between Aiden's shoulder blades, but the man clearly checked his ctOS information and then called the elevator for him. Aiden avoided eye contact until he was in the elevator, unable to believe it was just that easy. He checked the building systems, but no one was calling the cops or massing the on call security forces. Something had to go wrong, and Aiden was on edge as he left the elevator and knocked on the door to Sinclair's unit. 

Glenn Sinclair was a tall man with long light blond hair, falling around his face and jaw in a way he probably thought was appealingly coastal rather than reeking of 90s boy band. He was slim and rawboned with strong cheekbones and a sharp jaw, but he carried himself with a sense of sleazy entitlement. He'd also clearly been in the middle of something, judging by the rumpled black and white collared shirt he wore, only half-buttoned, and the open zip in his tight jean shorts.

"Can I help you?" he asked, lounging against the doorframe. 

"Crystal sent me," Aiden said, touching one finger to his lips deliberately this time. He kept his eyes on Sinclair's jaw, faux-submissive. 

"You're not my type," Sinclair said. "Why the hell would she send you?" 

Aiden shrugged. "She didn't say," he said. "Just called in a favor." 

Sinclair sighed, and then looked over his shoulder. A nasty smile came over his face, crinkling the man's hazel eyes. "Well, I guess I can find something to do with you." He stepped aside to let Aiden in. 

The condo was as ostentatious as Aiden expected. There were floor to ceiling windows framed by heavy blue velvet curtains, drawn to let in the view of the Atlanta skyline - what little view there was, Aiden thought. The floor was dark wood, covered by a series of thick, expensive rugs. All the tables were glass and metal, and all the chairs were modern black leather things that looked strange against the rest of the traditional cues of opulence. There were two large couches, both big enough for a tall man like Sinclair to stretch out on, both blue tufted velvet. They sat on either side of a large glass and metal coffee table, parked directly under a goddamn chandelier. 

There was a petite dark haired girl on one of the couches, sitting in only a pair of tiny denim shorts with her top off, crosslegged. Aiden could see a puddle of filmy purple fabric on the floor nearby. There was a glass of red wine in front of her, and Aiden tried not to frown. He doubted the girl was even twenty. 

"Wine?" Sinclair asked Aiden, striding across the large room towards a sleek white bar. He didn't wait for Aiden's answer before pulling out a bottle from the large piece of furniture that was revealed to be a wine cooler. Aiden glanced at him, and then looked at the girl, who was clearly try trying to cover up her misery. Given what had been passed around about Sinclair, Aiden thought he could confirm his involvement in the human trafficking scene. 

"Hey," he said quietly, catching the girl's attention, "when I say run? Run," he told her. She shot a confused glance at him, but Sinclair was returning. Aiden gave him a half smile when he was handed the glass of wine. 

"Thanks," he said, and pretended to take a sip. "What's your poison tonight?" 

Sinclair smiled at him, and took a sip of his own glass. "Well, I thought you two could fuck for me a little while," he said, "and then I'll pull you off her, show you both your place." He sat down and put his feet up on the couch, and Aiden leaned forward to put his wine down next to the girl's. But he knocked them both over, widening his eyes and knocking his ankle against the girl's as the red wine dripped onto the probably imported carpet. 

"Oh shit," he said, dropping to his knees and 'trying' to wipe up the mess. Behind him, the girl snatched up her shirt and kicked her shoes out from under the couch from the sounds of it. Smart kid. "I'm so sorry," Aiden said, looking up at Sinclair. 

The man got up, a snarl on his sharp featured face. "Not yet, you're not," he said. "I was trying to be nice." He grabbed Aiden by the hair. 

"Run!" Aiden shouted, and shot a fist straight into the side of Sinclair's knee. The man grunted in pain and tried to kick Aiden in the groin with his other leg. Aiden caught his foot and jerked that leg forward, sending Sinclair off balance. He heard the front door slam. Good. Girl was clear. 

"Are you a fucking white knight?" the other man gasped, letting Aiden's hair go. Aiden scrambled up and put a decent distance between the two of them, trying to map out the layout of the place. Where was the balcony door? 

"Because I don't like seeing kids miserable?" Aiden shot back. "Yeah, I guess I am." 

Sinclair laughed - and there was the balcony, at the other end of this massive room, next to the fireplace. "Well, now you're going to be miserable," he said, and closed with Aiden, fast and vicious. 

For a money man, Sinclair could hit, but he wasn't used to being hit back. Aiden circled him, trying to wear him down a little, look worn down himself. He knew he could outlast Sinclair. He kept close, pretended to try and kick him, slapped him hard across the face when that didn't work - amateur moves, of course. He let Sinclair hit him in the gut, turned fast to take an elbow to the solar plexus to the ribs instead. Aiden tried to back up all the while, looking for an 'escape'. 

He pretended to get tripped up on the long metal feet of an endtable, then took a couple of shots to the gut. He'd been a fixer a long time, he could take some damage. Then he scratched at Sinclair's eyes like a desperate man, and when the other man reared back, Aiden 'broke' for the balcony doors. 

Sinclair followed him, of course. He was rumpled again, but not truly hurt, so he took his time coming out. "Stupid fucking move," he called to Aiden as he walked across the cavernous living room. "You're trapped out there. You didn't even -" 

His words cut off with a gurgle and a thump. Three steps out of the balcony and Jordi had shot him, precise and quiet enough for the neighbors to ignore. Aiden leaned over the man and took his time looking at the spreading red stain, the pulped insides, the blood spilling from his mouth. He was still alive, but not for long. Aiden stayed and watched. When he went through those files he was sure were there, he wanted to remember this moment. 

"Huh," he told the man and his rolling eyes. "Seems like a pretty smart move to me." 

"You flirt," Jordi said in his ear. Aiden rolled his eyes. 

"Get over here," he said. "This place is too big to search on my own in time." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things I googled for this chapter: how can hackers use your phone, Atlanta smoking regulations, bulletproof glass, buckhead condos. In the three or four years since I started writing this, smoking laws have changed in Atlanta! Just pretty please pretend it takes place in 2017 or something.
> 
> To no one's surprise except mine my chapter count ballooned. I decided to cut it here and give y'all an update because my sex scenes get a little excessive on the word count. So! Here you are.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to everyone who encouraged me while writing this ridiculous thing, but especially Saro and Verily, who answered my five hundred inane questions about Chicago. Before I wrote this, the list of things I knew about Chicago consisted of pizza, nasty winters, and Rahm Emanuel, so if Aiden comes across at all as an authentic Chicagoan, it's thanks to them. 
> 
> Some of the businesses here are real Atlanta places, or at least based on them. Some I made up wholesale. Aiden's mistake here with Rawhide was a mistake I made at a con one year - in my defense, I was eighteen and exhausted. That store has apparently been bought out by another leather shop in the intervening years, but the old name fit better here, so I kept it. The clothes store is real, and so are all the clothes featured; Boy Next Door is a staple of the Atlanta gay scene. I didn't actually intend to send Aiden and Jordi there at first, but it was the first Google result for “Atlanta men's boutique” and, well, who am I to resist Aiden obliviously stumbling into all the gay businesses? The pizza place is made up wholecloth - most of the actual Chicago pizza places in Atlanta are either offshoots of Chicago businesses or managed by expats. Bullriders is made up, although there are at least two strip clubs in Atlanta aimed at gay men. Georgia doesn't really Do the whole western-themed thing like that, but I was partially inspired by [this video](https://sirsparklepants.tumblr.com/post/167782117463/supacutiepie-sarannewrapc-wearepeasant). 
> 
> Finally, every joke in this about Aiden being a disaster at caring for himself is for and because of TD, who's the reason I give a shit about Aiden Pearce in the first place. Actually, this whole thing can be laid at his feet, top to bottom. I don't know whether to thank him or curse his name. :P


End file.
